Plastic Polly (18 page)

“Everyone was talking about it online last night,” Alyssa says. “A friend of a friend of a friend messaged me and everyone else in the choir saying that Melinda saw you and the American River PlanMaster holding hands at Chip's yesterday.”

“We weren't holding hands.” I can feel my face flushing. “We were just—shaking hands.”

“Are you saying it's true?” Alyssa looks shocked. “You've been hanging out with him?”

“No. I mean, yes—but just that one time. Look, it's complicated, okay?” I close my eyes, trying to think this through. So yesterday Melinda texted not only Mrs. Huff, but several other people as well. And if Alyssa—who, social-status-wise, is about as far away from Melinda and the Court as you can get—knows I was hanging out with Justin yesterday, then everyone else at school probably knows too.

When I open my eyes, Alyssa is staring at me. “I was messaging and texting people all night sticking up for
you—telling them there's no way you would do something like that and that Melinda is a liar.”

“I know it looks really bad,” I tell Alyssa, “but I swear I'm not helping American River. Justin's just been trying to apologize since that night at the mall when—”

“What?” Alyssa takes a step backward. “What are you talking about? You
just said
you only hung out with him once. Now you're saying it's more than once? Are you completely incapable of telling the truth?”

“Alyssa.” I grab her arm before she has a chance to walk away from me. “I promise I'm not helping their team. If anything, it's our team that needs help.”

“Melinda is also saying she overheard you telling Justin all about our acts.”

“I didn't, I swear. Yes, I saw Justin yesterday, but I didn't tell him anything about our Talent Team. Melinda is lying.”

Alyssa stares at me steadily. “Even if I believe you, no one else will.”

As the morning progresses from one painful class to another, I can tell Alyssa is right. No one will believe me. Not that anyone
asks
me if the rumors are true. Nope, I get lots of dirty looks, and conversations stop when I pass by, but no one actually speaks to me. Except for Kate Newport in history class, when she informs me—in a voice loud enough so
everyone hears—I should start doing my own homework, and that, by the way, she'd like all her jewelry back. In that same class when I ask Kristy if I can borrow a pencil, she ignores me, so I don't take any notes on Mrs. Davenport's lecture on the fall of the Roman Empire. Which earns me a second lecture from Mrs. Davenport—this one on the importance of taking my education seriously. Then she assigns me an extra essay to write on the political system in ancient Rome.

Every single person in the entire school seems to know that I was at Chip's yesterday. Bethany Perkins even managed to slip an article about me and Justin into today's issue of the
Winston Times
titled “Did PlanMaster Polly Just Shatter Winston's Chances?” There's a picture of me on the cover, right next to a picture of Shattered Stars, and the article says that if the rumors are true, then Winston can just forget about the concert and the TV spot on
Good Morning, Maple Oaks
. Right after I finish reading the article, I get called out of class and spend twenty minutes explaining the whole situation to Principal Allen and Mr. Fish. Both of them tell me they believe me, but are still disappointed in my lack of discretion.

Three more nasty notes arrive in my locker. And after fourth period, when I'm hiding in a bathroom stall, trying to quietly give myself a private pep talk, two girls enter the restroom and start gossiping about me.

“But,” the first girl finishes up, “I heard Polly is saying it's not true.”

“Right,” the second girl scoffs. “Like you can trust anything Plastic Polly says.”

At lunch after I've gone through the cafeteria line, I stand holding my tray, wondering for the first time in over a year if I'm allowed to sit at the Court. Melinda is still sitting at the head of the table, and Jenna is still sitting next to her. Next to Jenna is Kate Newport. Everyone, from Lindsey, to Derek, to Kristy and the rest of the cheerleaders are staring intently at Kate while she speaks. Two guesses who they're talking about.

I end up tossing my lunch into the trash. Maybe I'll hang out with Alyssa again instead. But at the top of the staircase leading to the Dungeon I pause. Would Alyssa eat lunch with me? Would
anyone
in Winston Academy eat lunch with me today?

Finally I turn around and head for the library. With the dress rehearsal this afternoon and Groove It Up tomorrow, I might as well get a head start on Mrs. Davenport's essay now.

In sixth period English class Derek is lounging in my seat next to Melinda, so I have to sit in the back of the class. Which actually isn't so bad. As one student after another
stands up to give their book report, I relax for the first time all day. Since I'm sitting in the back, people seem to have forgotten about me.

“Okay and next up is . . .” Mr. Fish checks his list. “Polly Pierce. She'll be presenting on
Little Women
.”

Everyone turns, and thirty pairs of hostile eyes glare at me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I pick up my notes, walk to the front of the class, and face everyone.

For a minute I wonder if, instead of giving my book report, I should explain that I wasn't helping American River. If I told everyone that this is all just a big misunderstanding, would they believe me?

Probably not. After all, you can't trust anything Plastic Polly says, right?

“Whenever you're ready,” Mr. Fish prompts.

I look down at my notes. I had my presentation all ready to go. I had planned to gush on and on about how Jo March was my favorite character, even though that's not actually true. Jo is the character everyone likes best, and really, saying she's your favorite is the cool answer.

But standing up here, I realize I'm wearing clothes I bought to please other people, I'm about to speak in a voice I've practiced to please other people, and I'm ready to give a fake answer to please other people.

And you know what? I'm sick of it.

So instead, I tell the class the truth. I tell them how, in my opinion,
Little Women
is a book about girls trying to figure out who they are and what they want in life. And that I know most people like the character of Jo the best, because she's the confident tomboy who doesn't care what anyone thinks, while everyone believes her younger sister Amy—who is
my
favorite character—is a spoiled brat, just because she cares about her looks and got to go to Europe with her aunt, and Jo didn't.

But why would anyone want to be Jo? She doesn't care about clothes, or boys, or parties, and she likes to spend hours alone in her room writing. How boring is
that
? Being alone in your house isn't that great, I tell the class. And it's not Amy's fault she got picked to go to Europe. She was in the right place at the right time, and when an opportunity was handed to her, she was smart enough to take it. She got to travel, and do fun things, and flirt with a cute boy. Why does that make her a brat? Especially if, in the end, she figured out who she wanted to be?

When I'm finished, I return to my seat. In the row in front of me I hear one girl whisper to another, “Figures. Plastic Polly
would
like Amy the best.”

But I don't let it shake me. For once I gave a real, true answer. And if someone doesn't like it, too bad for them.

True Confession: I still have my stuffed teddy bear that I named Amelia Earhart, but whenever any of the Court girls come over, I hide her in my closet.

W
HEN
I
RETURN HOME AFTER THE
G
ROOVE
I
T
U
P DRESS
rehearsal, which did
not
go well, I immediately notice two things. One, both my parents are already home from work. And two, Mom is making dinner tonight. I don't mean she's scooping food out of a take-out container and plopping it onto a plate. I mean she's actually cooking dinner. The oven is turned on and everything. I can tell because whatever's in there smells like it's starting to burn.

“Go wash up,” Mom says. “Tonight we're having a family dinner. All three of us.”

“Okay.” I slink into my bedroom, lie down on my bed,
and hug Amelia Earhart to my chest. The dress rehearsal was sort of a disaster. While the Talent Team rehearsed, the planning committee ignored me and spent the whole time huddled together, whispering.

Finally I was able to pull Lindsey aside and explain that I wasn't helping the American River team.

“I don't know, Polly,” Lindsey said. “It doesn't look good. First you fire Melinda and Jenna. Then Melinda says she saw you with Justin yesterday. And now at lunch Kate told us you and Alyssa formed your own judging club and that she was expected to just agree with whatever you two wanted.”

“Kate said that?”

Lindsey nodded. “Is it true?”

I didn't know how to answer that.
Was
it true? It was true that Alyssa and I—when it came to judging, anyway—had similar tastes. But had we done the same thing to Kate that Melinda and Jenna had done to me?

I pulled Kate aside to try to talk to her, but she just shrugged and said, “Melinda invited me to the Court.” I realized Kate didn't particularly care if the rumors about me and Justin were true. She was just happy she'd finally gotten her invite, something I could've given her at any time but hadn't.

“I'm so sorry, Kate,” I said, and hoped she knew I meant for more than just the mess with Justin.

In the dining room Mom, Dad, and I sip mineral water and stare at the lit candles and the decorative squashes Mom placed in the center of the table. No one moves to try the food.

Mom made a pan of corn bread and a pot of chili. The corn bread is looking decidedly charred, so no one has scooped a piece out yet. And the chili—well, I've never seen chili with a greenish tinge to it.

Mom serves Dad and me a heaping bowl of chili. “Dig in!” she says eagerly, taking a sip of mineral water.

“Aren't you going to have any?” Dad looks at the empty bowl in front of Mom.

“Oh, no.” Mom waves a hand. “I snacked while I was cooking. I'm absolutely stuffed.”

Dad looks at me as if to say,
You first!
but I shake my head slightly and point at him.

Dad grabs Mom's fingers and kisses the back of her hand. “Looks wonderful, Laura.” Then he raises a spoonful of chili. “Bon appétit!” He chews for about five seconds, then starts to cough violently. “Water!” he gasps.

Mom grabs the pitcher and refills his glass. Dad chugs it down quickly. “More.” After another glass of hastily
gulped water, he says, “I'm all right. My allergies must be acting up.” Then, in a casual voice, he says, “Laura, how much salt did you put in this?”

Mom shrugs. “The recipe got wet from some water on the counter. I think it said two T something. So I put in two tablespoons.”

I quickly put my spoon down. “Mom, I think it was supposed to be two teaspoons.”

“Oh.” Mom's smile fades.

“But that's fine,” Dad says quickly. “Measurements don't matter.” He looks pointedly at my spoon and gives me a look that clearly tells me I'd better start eating,
now
.

I pick my spoon back up and sprinkle a thick layer of shredded cheese over my chili and top it off with about two cups of sour cream. Then I take a bite. I don't think I've ever tasted chili like this before. I can't detect any meat or beans in it. Maybe it's supposed to be vegetable chili?

“Eat up,” Mom says. “There's dessert in the fridge when we're done.”

Dad and I glance at each other. I can't help but wonder if aliens kidnapped my mother while I was at school and left a Martha Stewart wannabe in her place.